Glimmer of Regret
by ForbiddenDreams13
Summary: If she could see him now, what would she do? Garrus' thoughts while on Omega. Set Pre-ME2.


**Hello one and all! Welcome to my first Mass Effect fic!**

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If she could see him now, what would she do? Berate him? Give him a lecture? Or, worst of all, just stand there, staring at him, no words for the person he has become? Garrus doesn't know. He doesn't want to know. Shepard is dead. Thinking about her, no matter how fleeting the thought, hurts him in ways no bullet ever could. He does know she wouldn't be happy though. The Garrus he is now, and the Garrus he was under her command are two different people. One is a Turian who knows when to step back and take a deep breath, who knows that the best way and the fastest way are not the same thing, and that innocent lives should never get in the way of pride and revenge. That Turian knows the difference between the actual definition of justice and the pliable definition thrown about by angry immature children looking to shove their guns into any face they can. The other… Well the other is a complete opposite. The Turian he is now is bitter and jaded. He has given up in trying to make sense of things and instead rewrites the very definition of sense. He tries to make order, but it's not the order of a military or C-Sec, it's his version. And it is brutal and cold. Fitting for this hell hole in which he now resides.

Omega is a lawless place. Oh sure, it has a rule, but that rule is to law what a beginner's engineering course is to the Quarians: useless and irrelevant. People do what they want here. It doesn't matter if they're stealing bread or people, as long it doesn't interfere with that smarmy bitch of an asari, no one cares. Which is why he is here. The Citadel would never let him make the difference he wanted, too much red tape, too many… Damn, what did the humans call it? Oh yes, 'HR related sensibilities.' On the Citadel, you couldn't even spit without someone yelling about a violation of their rights, or C-Sec chastising you over some stupid regulation. The Citadel was nothing more than a place for the political elite to impose upon everyone else. Didn't matter how frivolous the law, it got imposed. And therein lay the problem. Bureaucracy ruled on the Citadel, not people. No difference can be made unless you're willing to slog through all that red tape and then spend the next ten years twiddling your thumbs as you wait for a few dignitaries to finish debating about it. Which is why he left. Omega might be just a single peg above anarchy, but at least here the people have a fighting shot at changing their situation. Even if that change is from bad to worse.

He glances around the main floor of Afterlife. It's hard to see anything at a distance thanks to the damn red lighting. Which, now that he thinks about it, is probably the point. The music pumps out of unseen speakers, each steady thump of the bass vibrating the floor beneath his feet. Up on stage asari dancers bend and sway to the erratic pulse of electronic noise. Shepard never cared for club music. To her, it was a hodge-podge of techno mishmash that only those who were high out of their minds could comprehend. Which, if he took a closer look around, he'd bet at least half of these people were. Hallex is a big seller on Omega. Human drugs aren't far behind though, cocaine and ecstasy especially. Anything to slip away from reality for a while. Garrus doesn't fault their reasoning, just their methods. Reality on Omega is harsh, a cage of steel and plastic that squeezes tighter with each passing day. Is it any wonder the residents want to pretend they're somewhere else? Still, it doesn't excuse the drugs. If he had his way, every crate containing illegal substances would be blown to pieces along with the filth that peddling the stuff.

He's trying that type of thinking though. Trying to hold on to what she gave him, the lessons of mercy and being just even when no deserves it. It's just so hard. Hell, everything is hard with her gone. He can barely find comfort in the people he has gathered around him. Sure, they are good people looking for a chance to fight back, but there's little voice hovering in the back of his mind, whispering to him whenever he looks into the faces of his squad members.

 _Is this really the right way to go about this?_

And he'd be damned if that voice wasn't Shepard's. Of course every time it pops up, he can never answer its one and only question. He wants to. He wants to yell at, scream that right doesn't matter, that this is the _only_ way to help these people. Shout that the voice doesn't understand, and it never will, but he can't. On some level the voice is right, and he knows it. This wasn't really the best way, but the problem is, is that he can't think of a better way. That was her role. To think of every possible option and choose the one with the best outcome. The one with minimal casualties. He can't be her. No matter how hard he tries, he can never measure up to the person she was. He can't save people the way she could. All he can do is point his gun, shoot, and scratch one more unscrupulous asshole of the list. It's messy, it's bloody and there's always someone screaming. But at least the volume of bastards goes down. Besides, when his squad members look at him, he sees hope in their eyes. A brilliant, burning hope. They admire him, they like him, and why not? He's helping them take back their lives. Saving them from getting beaten to death by the Blood Pack, shot to hell by Eclipse, or being hassles by the Blue Suns for a protection fee that goes up at the end of every month. They were the ones that gave him the name Archangel, and he will embody that name to the fullest extent; by smiting the wicked and protecting the good. No matter how many bodies he has to step over. No matter how much blood he has to wash from his hands. No matter how much danger he puts himself in. After all, it's all he can do anymore. With Shepard gone, there's so little light in the galaxy. All he can do is spark little flames and hope that someday he'll build a bonfire to match the one she carried inside her.

His Omni-tool beeps, yanking him out of his thoughts. He glances down at it. A message from Sidonis.

 _Hey, it's me. There's a new job to discuss. Meet me down in the shipping area._

He sighs. Oh well, it was good timing anyway. He's been sitting here long enough. Reaching for his glass, Garrus watches the lights of the club sparkle off the rim. Little tiny sparkles, just like the ones that danced in her eyes. Garrus swigs down the last of his drink, pays the bartender, and heads towards the door. Before he leaves, he takes one last look around. Drunk patrons, slutty dancers, shady deals going down in the far booths. It's good Shepard isn't alive to see him in a place like this. He turns and exits the club.

Wherever she is now, it's an existence a hell of a lot more peaceful than his. He can't help but envy her a little.

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